With Love
by thosedarndursleys
Summary: Merope loves Tom Riddle, and she knows that he loves her in return—he just needs a bit of help remembering that.


**A/N:** Hey, all! This was written for Round 12 of the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition. As Beater 2 of the Caerphilly Catapults, I had to write a fully, slice of life story about the Gaunt Family. Specifically, I chose Merope :) For judging purposes, the word count of this story is 948. My optional prompts were:

1\. (word) control

5\. (opening sentence) It had happened again.

13\. (quote) "It's easy to make a decision if you already know what the outcome will be."

—Armin, _Attack on Titan_

With Love

It had happened again. Merope Gaunt had barely started fixing breakfast when the potion began to fade. Tom sat behind her at the table, sorting through the morning paper, and she could hear him becoming more and more distant. His chatter was slowing, gradually becoming muddled with an aversion that Merope had spent the past year trying to make foreign to their lives. She felt her stomach twist at his silence and knew she would have to act fast. The kettle hadn't yet begun to whistle, but she reached for it anyway, pouring the lukewarm water into a cup and tossing in a swig of Amortentia. The tea leaves hadn't had time to change more than the color, she knew, but she was running out of time. Merope placed it on the tabletop and returned to her breakfast preparations. She kept her ears tuned to her husband's stiff movements until she heard him take a deep draught from the mug.

When she returned to the table with two plates in hand, she was met by a soft kiss and a wink. Tom had jumped to his feet to pull out her chair and offered his thanks when he settled into his own. As he reached for his fork, a smile graced the tip of his lips.

Merope took a deep breath. It was going to be a good day.

— — — — —

Once breakfast had passed, Merope found herself and Tom in the garden of their small home, her tending to the flowers as Tom took in the Saturday morning haze. Her throat burned with the memory of their breakfast together. She had loved Tom's easy affection that had filled the silences between conversations, but the thought of what had earned her that affection was a weight in her stomach. She always told herself that it would be the last time, that she wouldn't give him the potion anymore. Each morning, she swore he didn't need it. They had been married for nearly seven months—a natural fondness should have surely formed by now. But each time she felt him pulling away from their morning embrace or their light banter, she had to fight with herself on whether to reach for the glass bottle or not. It wasn't right; Merope knew that much, but surely they were both happier this way. She was, without a doubt. And that light in Tom's eyes, there was no way to mistake that.

There was a rustle of grass as Tom lowered himself to the grounds next to her. Merope pulled her from the soil, sinking back and allowing her shoulder to brush against his.

"You have a great eye," Tom said, nodding toward the batch of petunias at her knees. "They're nearly as pretty as you are."

Merope felt her cheeks flush. "You're ridiculous," she muttered.

Tom leaned in close to grasp her chin and tipped it upward. He pressed a chaste kiss to her lips, leaving his nose against hers. "And you're beautiful."

Merope bit her lip before leaning in to kiss him again.

She definitely wasn't mistaken.

— — — — —

The sun was just beginning to sink into the horizon when Merope settled onto the couch next to her husband. His face was angled downward, his gaze stuck in a book, and Merope took a moment to trace his jawline with her eyes. It was stark against the fading afternoon, but not enough to be severe. His pale skin curved around it and hugged his veined neck, and Merope found her hand reaching out to stroke the trails of his freckles without her permission. She gave herself a sheepish grin and fully surrendered to the urge. She had never been one for control around Tom Riddle, even when they had first met. She assumed that lack of control was what made their daily routine so easy. Despite the confliction she felt when she uncorked that bottle, despite the flutter of her stomach and the spike in her throat as she poured it into his tea or his evening soup, Merope knew it was necessary.

She was shaken from her thoughts as Tom shifted from her grasp to slide his book to the end table. When he turned back to face her, his brow was cocked, the left side of his mouth following suit. He reached out to take her hand, this time stroking the veins that wove around her knuckles. Neither said a word.

They ended every day like this—in silence, feeling the evening seep to the forefront as they sat in each other's company. Tom's loving smile sent another jolt through Merope's stomach, and she shook away another wave of guilt. That wasn't honest love, she reminded herself. Even when he had loved her the most, before he had ever taken her hand, before he had even spoken her name, it had never been enough to make him want to stay with her. The potion was vital for their life together. It sorted out the confusion in his mind, made him realize what was so great about their life together. Merope knew they wouldn't have all that they did without the Amorentia.

She leaned in to kiss his cheek and rose to check the dinner on the stovetop. She stirred the evening's stew diligently as Tom watched her from across the room, and when he rose to draw the curtains, she dutifully dumped another dash of love into his bowl. It was heavier than her normal dose, and she felt it in his grip as he led her to bed that evening.

Merope had decided at the very beginning that this would be mutual, and she was obliged to make sure of that.


End file.
